Sunburst

Chapter 1

Dressed in a threadbare T-shirt and paint-spattered cutoffs, Erica McCrery blew a strand of strawberry-blond hair from her eyes and rocked back on her heels to survey her project. The oak roll-top desk was an absolutely delicious prize, intricately scrolled and radiating four generations of character…but restoring it was giving her fits. A previous owner had covered the fine oak with a dark mahogany stain, which the customer wanted removed-a job that was not easy.

Finally, she had discovered the right stripping agent, and now she took up the cloth again, her concentration total. The day was still hot; the late afternoon May sun dappling a diamond pattern on the back of her kerchiefed head. Her long legs, coiled under her, were gradually beginning to ache from their cramped position. There was a splotch of stain on her turned-up nose and another on her chin, and her slim hands were covered with it.

“Erica? What’s for dinner?”

“Ice water,” she said absently. “Fresh-baked air and an extremely nutritious casserole of nothing…” She turned to the doorway with an impish grin for her husband.

Kyle chuckled. “You know I hate leftovers.” Leaning against the doorway with one arm, he used the other to wipe a thin film of perspiration from his forehead. Then, hands on hips, he surveyed first Erica and then her project, with suddenly narrowed eyes. His smile abruptly faded. “What have you taken on now, lady?”

“Just a little desk. It won’t take me long.”

As he stalked forward, his eyebrows rose expressively at the discrepancy between her definition of little and the massive desk that had taken four men to bring in.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Erica insisted.

He nodded, but there was no answering smile, and while he studied her project, she studied him. After six months, Erica was still trying to get used to Kyle in a different working uniform. She used to think that nothing could accent his black-Irish good looks more than a suit and starched shirt. With thick black curly hair and a pair of flashing turquoise eyes, Kyle had projected drive and assurance in business attire, an aura of strength and controlled power tempered with a sense of humor. He had a more casual look now, in his dark, loose sweatshirt, jeans so worn and soft that they molded themselves to his muscular thighs and hips. But the soft texture of his clothes was denied by the new hardness she saw beneath the surface, from the lean, whipcord muscles that had developed with six months of physical work to the grimly determined expression that had replaced the old gleam of laughter in his eyes.

“Honey…” He rocked down on his heels next to her. “Oak’s a bitch to restore, isn’t it?”

She smiled again, radiantly, relieved there would be no argument. “Incredible. But the desk is so gorgeous! There are two secret drawers and a little hidden cubbyhole-”

“Erica.”

She glanced back at him, only to find a white rag blocking her vision as he gently rubbed at the stain on her nose. His tender touch was a total denial of the harsh quality of his voice.

“You’ve taken on too much.”

“I haven’t,” she denied.

“You have. We haven’t had a decent dinner in three days; you’re running exhausted every evening; and it would be different if I couldn’t handle the business, Erica-but I know why you’re doing it and it’s completely unnecessary. If you want to do something, do what you did in Florida. You liked that historical society-”

“Kyle-”

“No more of it,” he said flatly. He stood back up, hands on hips again.

She drew in her breath, frightened of that new glacier-blue in his eyes. “You’ve only got so many hours in a day, Kyle. You can’t possibly do it all…” Instinctively, she stood up, too, but he stepped back before she could touch him, and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers again. He was exhausted and fighting it. “Kyle, I like the work,” she said softly. “Can’t you understand-”

“I understand exactly,” he said wearily. “Hell, Erica, I…” He shook his head as if he could shake off the bleakness that had come with too many overburdened days, and then gave up. “I’ve got to go out.”

And then he was gone, with the chilling abruptness that was so typical of him these days. Erica automatically picked up the cloth again and dipped it in the solution, trying to convince herself that her whole body didn’t suddenly feel tense and off-balance. She studied the wood she was working on, but the project had lost some of its fascination. A few minutes ago, the work had given something back…a beauty, a texture, a feeling of creativity and personal satisfaction, feelings she was only beginning to realize were intensely important to her.

Now she felt appallingly unsure, all too aware what an amateur she was. Half a year ago she would not have known the difference between oak and any other light wood. In itself, that was no crime. Nor was the liberal arts degree that had never been intended as anything but window dressing, nor were the social graces she’d learned rather than practical skills, or the fancy hors d’oeuvres she could still whip up faster than hamburgers. There wasn’t anything wrong with the way she had been raised; it was all just so…useless. She felt an impatient, idiotic blur of moisture fill her eyes.

The mahogany coat on one drawer was very thick. Erica rubbed at it determinedly, but her own anxiety wasn’t so easy to wipe away. It wasn’t the bit of an argument, but that single instant when Kyle had pulled back from the touch of her. She was afraid…

Was she losing him?

Even the fleeting thought struck such an anguished chord inside her that she promptly blocked it, remembering instead how it had been when she’d first met Kyle. She’d thought herself so very confident around men, such an expert at saying a tactful no, that she was still a virgin; she was even rather amused at the chaotic, passionate involvements her friends took on. Then she’d met Kyle and was in bed with him almost before she’d memorized his last name; his pursuit had been so immediate and so potent and so total… There had been no cooling of his ardor in the past nine years, no time when he had ever been less than a virile and demandingly passionate lover. Only lately, since his father died…

He was tired, she reminded herself. Exhausted.

She stood up. The desk was done, a rich pale gold in the fading sunlight. It was getting too late to see by natural light anyway, and Erica was physically drained. Cramped muscles, tired eyes…and the scent of the stain, usually pleasant, was now strangely foreign, arguing with her empty stomach.

She stretched with a weary sigh, and half listened for Kyle’s return as she moved through the shop to the little washroom beyond. She was cleaning her fingers in a small bowl of paint thinner when she heard the shop’s back door open. “Kyle! I’m here!” she called out, hearing the slight lilt in her voice in spite of herself.

But it was not Kyle who found his way to the door. The man who entered was the diametric opposite of Kyle in appearance. His white shirt was still crisp over a husky though not heavy frame, and he wore the most expensive of suits, pearl gray, custom tailored. He had tossed the suit jacket over one shoulder and loosened his tie; his blond hair was a bit disheveled from the hot afternoon wind, and there was a lazy look in his brown eyes that she remembered well. He took one look at Erica and started laughing, approaching with the wariness of one who had to search to find a place to kiss. With both hands on her waist from behind, he nudged at the strands of hair at the nape of her neck and kissed with a tickle.

“Morgan! You devil!” she scolded, her eyes automatically brightening at the sight of him. “We haven’t seen you in so long!”

“I just can’t believe it! Miss Country Club turned worker! Honey, when you strip down to the essentials…lush.” he praised her appearance, examining with relish and in detail her long legs and feminine figure. “You get better-looking every time I see you, Erica.”

“Well, of course,” she said cheekily, knowing exactly what she looked like next to Morgan Shane in his expensive attire. She was barefoot, her hair was tangled and she wore no bra under a T-shirt that should have been in the rag bag. Still, he had the gift. When she first met him she’d been unnerved by the way he mentally undressed anyone in skirts, and because he’d been Kyle’s closest friend he’d been difficult to avoid. Now she felt only a bubble of amusement at his survey of her, immediately aware that Morgan realized she wore no bra, and that her figure was more than passable. Her ego had been low and promptly climbed two notches. “But what are you doing here, Morgan? Aren’t you a little far from palm-tree country?”

“Shane, Inc. decided to have a little look-see in the Midwest with a view toward expansion. That was the excuse. The real reason was to find out why you and Kyle haven’t surfaced above ground since you came to Wisconsin-and besides, I figured you’d be bored by now with no uninvited strangers dropping by once a month to mess up your plans.”

“You’re hardly a stranger. And you could have called ahead of time,” she scolded. “It might just have occurred to you that I’d need thirty seconds to put the house in order and make up a bed.”

“I brought dinner,” Morgan said, defending himself. His eyes were flickering over the shop, and he didn’t bother to hide his astonishment. “It actually looks as if the two of you are taking this hobby of yours seriously!”

“Hobby?” she asked blankly as she finished cleaning her hands, rubbed a small amount of cream on them and reached promptly for the grocery bag he was more than patiently holding. She forgot about his strange characterization of their work as she rummaged within. “Steaks! You adorable man, you’ve brought a feast!”

And he brought the cooking skills to go with it. Morgan probably knew his way around a kitchen better than she did-cooking, she often teased him, was his second-favorite bachelor’s hobby. She was duly shooed upstairs to shower and change while he marinated the steaks. Within a half hour they were both seated in the living room. Morgan had uncorked the wine and was pouring it into two glasses.

The long cotton dress Erica wore was older than sin and intended for such. Once Kyle’s favorite, it was a mix of forest and leaf greens, with a low smocked bodice and loose, flowing skirt. Barefoot still, with her hair streaming to her shoulders, she had a sensual sparkle in her eyes that the man across from her made no secret of appreciating.

Erica, on the other hand, was noting with amusement that Morgan had lost no time in making himself at home. His tie littered one table, and his coat was draped on another; his shoes were already discarded by the couch and his keys and reading glasses were stashed on the bookshelves. When he left the next day, which she’d already been informed was the plan, she would have to trail after him the way a mother did a two-year-old. But then, it had been exactly that way on his frequent and just as impromptu visits in Florida.

“I still can’t believe you’re really living here,” he remarked. “I knew that when Kyle’s father died you sold up lock, stock and barrel, but I thought you’d be out of this little town by now.”

“Mmm,” she answered absently as she sipped the smooth light wine. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to get addicted to quiet and country, your work right outside your back door, and your hours your own. Kyle’s family did woodworking for generations, you know…” Speaking of her husband made her conscious of his absence, and she wondered uneasily where Kyle had gone.

“But it’s hardly your style, love.” He settled back against the couch and surveyed the room, his gaze coming back to her with an affectionate smile.

The comment struck her as strange, and she stared at him in puzzlement.

“Well, it isn’t, honey,” Morgan said dryly. “God knows what’s gotten into Kyle. In college, he used to swear he’d never come back here; he hated everything about the place. Manual labor? And for you-”

She shook her head at him. “I’ve never met such a total snob in my entire life. Get off it, Morgan. You say ‘manual labor’ as if you’d have to get up and wash your hands afterward,” she teased. “And just for that, you’ve got KP after dinner.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t mean-”

“You certainly did. I haven’t the least idea what you’re trying to imply, but I am absolutely in love with this place. Now that I’ve made it look so fantastic…” She grinned impishly. “You should have seen it when we first moved here.”

It was not exactly fantastic, their little A-frame house. Their home in Florida, for instance, had been a breeze to decorate: She had merely walked into the best furniture store in town and hired the best decorator. Not this time, though. Erica hadn’t known how long Kyle wanted to stay, and in addition to the shock of Joel McCrery’s death, there was the shock of having to count pennies for the first time in her life. The transition from affluence to debt had been abrupt, mind-boggling, but the worst part of it had been Kyle’s unwillingness to tell her anything. Still…

Her eyes skimmed over the changes they had made. A dark pumpkin-colored carpet covered the large living room floor. Cabinets took up one wall: bookcases, a stereo unit and wood carvings. An imposing piece of driftwood served as the base of a coffee table, with a thick plate-glass top. Her huge crewelwork patterns in the oranges and creams and greens that she loved were centered above an oversized couch upholstered in olive. The living room was sunken; three steps up was the kitchen, with a low tan brick wall serving as a divider between the two areas. Copper pans and plants hung from the ceiling. It was all very bright and very simple, and Erica found more richness in the room than she had ever found in the luxurious surroundings she had been accustomed to from childhood on. “The place on the beach seems sterile now,” she said musingly. “I’m not sure I’d ever want to go back.”

“Sure,” Morgan agreed dryly. “Have another drink, sweetheart.”

He clearly didn’t believe her. “Do you honestly dislike this house?” she insisted.

“It’s a measure of your ability to make a home out of anything, Erica. I just have a hard time picturing the two of you in anything so small. Where is your weaker half, anyway?”

“Kyle? He’ll be back any minute.” She smiled obligingly at his quip, but was uncomfortable at not being able to come up with the exact wheres and whens for her husband. For no real reason, Morgan was the last person she would want to know there was trouble between herself and Kyle. “Tell me what’s been going on since we last saw you,” she urged.

Morgan hesitated, swirling the wine in his glass. “The business is going terrific, if you can believe that in these economic times. We’ve been checking out markets in Milwaukee, Chicago, any number of-”

“You know darn well I don’t mean that,” she chided. “What about Marissa?”

“My God, I haven’t seen you in a long time,” he said dryly as he took a long drink of the wine.

“So you’ve taken up the hunt again?” Erica shook her head, feeling a mixture of sympathy and exasperation with him. “I thought you were almost talking rings a few months ago.”

Morgan shifted to a standing position and poured them both a second glass of wine. When he turned back to Erica the teasing was gone from his eyes and he looked tired, the crow’s-feet prominent at the corners of his eyes. “There’s not much point in getting married when the chances of divorce are edging toward fifty percent, now, is there?” he asked idly. “My married friends aren’t exactly advertisements for wedded bliss-you two are the only exception. At times I don’t know what I’d do without the pair of you. Since you moved, I’ve felt as if my oasis has been ripped out from under me; your home was the only place I could go to get out of the rat race.” He laughed shortly. “Sometimes I’ve wondered, Erica, if you offer everyone the chance to pour out their troubles to you, or is it just me?”

“Trouble, Morgan?” she asked gently. The brooding quality in his voice immediately aroused her maternal instinct. She had no doubt that across a boardroom Morgan was a solid and ruthless adversary, but when he came to stay with them he always had a stray-cat quality. His life was one long howl at night, with lonely silences in between. He always picked women who were takers, as he was, but Erica had the unaccountable notion that a single long stroke down his back would soothe the ruffled fur that seemed a by-product of his frantic lifestyle.

“I look at you and Kyle,” he said frankly, “and I’m jealous. I’ve always been jealous. The way Kyle just picked up and moved, chucked everything on a whim. I wouldn’t choose this lifestyle, but that’s not the point. It’s the inner freedom, the courage to just get out and do it. Change. Even if it’s only short term.”

Erica half frowned. Neither freedom nor choice had motivated their move to Wisconsin. Nor were they engaged in a “hobby.” It had never occurred to her before that Kyle hadn’t told his closest friend the real circumstances following Joel’s death. But before she could say anything, Morgan was rambling on. “I’ve been tied to the business ever since I got out of school, and there are times I’d just like to say to hell with it.”

“Morgan,” Erica said gently, “you have so much to be proud of. You’re a lot younger than your father was when he-”

“Yes. I’m a huge success, money-wise,” he said dryly. “And money buys a lot of toys. In the short run, it buys a lot of women as well.”

She was silent, not so much shocked as saddened by his attitude-for his sake.

“Who’s kidding whom? That’s the life I lead,” he admitted quietly, and looked at her, his features impassive. “But women like you aren’t just walking around, love.”

“Sweetie,” she said affectionately. His compliment, so out of the blue, had warmed her. More than that, she simply wanted to help Morgan if he needed help. But she also felt a strange sort of unease. Where was Kyle? She stood up and teasingly ordered Morgan ahead of her toward the kitchen. “What kind of lady do you expect to pick up in a singles bar anyway?”

If Kyle had been there, she wouldn’t have hesitated to remain sitting with Morgan, to reach over and hug him, to urge him to talk and get his troubles off his chest. But Kyle wasn’t there, and Morgan’s eyes on her had been just a little more than friendly, more than just superficially appreciative. She felt a touch of guilt. It felt good to be wanted, to feel needed-and perhaps she needed that a bit too much right now, when Kyle seemed to be going out of his way to tell her he didn’t need her, when in her heart she was afraid he didn’t want her as he once had.